She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him.
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